


At Least One Universe

by Circadienne



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Xeno, clueless dipshits in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1307227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Circadienne/pseuds/Circadienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's gratuitous dreambubble smut, folks.</p><blockquote>
  <p>"Shut up," you growl, and roll over on top of him, hands on his shoulders, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, I am not the asshole here because I am not the one whose stupid dead self shows up playing grabass just to make it absolutely clear that I am the biggest romantic failure of all time, it is me, even alternate universe doomed timeline me can get laid but me, no, not me, if I were to get someone's pants off we'd all die, that's what this means, do you even realize that's what's going on here? No, of course you do not, because your weak human brain cannot comprehend basic causality.  Which is why I need you to SHUT UP and also to go away so I can bang my head against the wall and wonder why I was ever hatched." You're panting a little by the time you force your mouth shut.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	At Least One Universe

You're reading _In Which A Blueblooded Psychiadjudicator Develops Flushed Feelings For Two Trolls, One a Rustblooded Stevedominator and the Other A More Suitable Indigoblooded Lieuterrorant, But Finds Herself Conflicted and Therefore Unable to Act, While Her Bemused Kismesis Reaps the Benefits of Her Sexual Confusion, Containing Three Scenes of Gratuitous Dockworking, Caliginous Uniform Kink, A Squeakbeast Deployed for Dramatic Purposes, Unsauced Grubloaf_ etc. etc. etc. for maybe the fourteenth time. Not captchaloguing more novels before the end of the world was one of the more trivial mistakes you've made, in a life liberally larded with mistakes, but it's a constant source of irritation. You've been learning the stupid human alphabet so you can read Rose's books, and you're not bad at it, exactly, but it's work to read in English and you're feeling lazy and tired and washed out. Also her novels are all…beardy. Better to take another turn through Bulria's inability to grow a pair and admit that she really wants the warmblooded muscley one.

But you're not exactly concentrating on the story when Dave flickers into view, shirtless, curled up and sleeping on the pile beside you, and you realize you're in a dream, because Surprise Half-Naked Alien. He stirs just enough to reach a hand up and pat at your shoulder, clutching at your shirt as he sinks back into sleep.

You're never going to get used to their weird snub-nailed hands; they look just enough like normal fingers that usually you don't notice it, but up close, when there's one…clinging to you…the distances between the round lumpy hinges are not quite proportional and there are cilia all over the back and the pallor of the thing, the little spots on it -- it's a hand but it's also nothing you can imagine finding at the end of your own arm. It's just wrong.

"Dave," you say, nudging him with one elbow, because you can't stand to have his creepy hand all over you like that any more, "Dave, wake up."

He mutters a little, shifts, and -- oh. That's his whole creepy arm around you, snaking in under your paperback and -- and tugging you back against his chest, snugging his hips up against your ass, and wow that's a lot more familiar than you've ever gotten with his entire creepy alien everything. Hello.

"Hey, assbasket," you growl, "you're molesting me."

"Hmhmm," he agrees, into the back of your neck, breath tickling through your hair, "Yes, indeedy-do, call me Chester," which makes as much sense as what he's doing which is to say no sense at all. 

"Dave. You're dead."

He sighs. "Repeatedly. Habitually. Yes. We are. Get over it already and take your pants off. Take it all off, baby. It is morningtime in the woods and I am a lumberjack. Get out your chainsaw, pull the little cord, grrn grrn timber kshaboosh down it goes --" There are hand motions that go with this whole speech, hand motions that slide across your chest and reach down and whoa, rub right up against your crotch. 

"Dave," you interrupt, because your associations with chainsaws are not at all sexy but you are being extremely patient even though he's bumping his creepy alien bulge against your well-rounded ass, or perhaps _because_ he's bumping his creepy alien bulge against your well-rounded ass and wow, that's, that's something, "I'm not dead."

His arm loosens and he twitches back. Goodbye, Dave's bulge. "Oh. Shit. Really?" 

You turn your head. Yeah, he looks awake now. "Yeah, really, douchebag."

"I --" He sucks in a breath. "I am…not a lumberjack, am I?"

"Not with me, no." Which you're starting to regret, because, okay, that whole awkward thing he was doing was maybe the most physical contact you've had with another person in perigees and your hands are kind of shaking.

"Shit, Karkat. Really?"

"You are as pure as a virgin mother grub and twice as tightassed," you tell him, because it's true, the asshole hasn't so much as taken his cape off in front of you in the sweep you've spent on this stupid rock and now here's his dead half-naked self flailing around your pile babbling about forest byproducts. 

"But I'm alive."

"Yeah." 

His lip twitches. "Well, that's something. Although it sounds like dead Daves have more fun."

"If dead Daves are completely different than the one I'm used to, sure."

"We could do a comparison test?" he offers, then laughs. "Your expression, Karkles, that was great."

"It's good to know that my sexual frustration amuses you, nookwipe." You pull the grubby bit of card you use for a bookmark out of the back of your novel and stick it in to mark your place. "Since when do you hate me like that, anyhow?"

He chokes a little. "Since never."

"But --"

"Hu-man," he says, stretching the vowels out and pointing to his chest. "Huuuuuu-maaaaan. We don't fuck people we hate. Well, I don't. I save that particular magical experience for people -- or, okay, you're not a person, you're a freakish gray alien but not the big-eyed Whitney Streiber kind, which is good because their heads are even more freakish than yours -- people that I'm completely stupid about."

He's shitting you, you're sure of it. He sounds so relaxed about saying it, salted in there in the midst of all that hoofbeastshit like it's something he says all the time, like it's something he's _used_ to saying.

"Wow, I make my big love confession and you think I'm shitting you. You never change, Karkat, you are always the biggest asshole you can possibly be. All the Karkats in all the universes are always --"

"Shut up," you growl, and roll over on top of him, hands on his shoulders, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, I am not the asshole here because I am not the one whose stupid dead self shows up playing grabass just to make it absolutely clear that I am the biggest romantic failure of all time, it is me, even alternate universe doomed timeline me can get laid but me, no, not me, if I were to get someone's pants off we'd all die, that's what this means, do you even realize that's what's going on here? No, of course you do not, because your weak human brain cannot comprehend basic causality. Which is why I need you to SHUT UP and also to go away so I can bang my head against the wall and wonder why I was ever hatched." You're panting a little by the time you force your mouth shut.

He reaches up a hand and brushes your hair back from your face. You hiss in a breath, you can't help it, because that was so pale but now his hand is tightening, up against your scalp, and no, that's not pale at all.

"Karkat," he says, and leans up and pulls you down and kisses you, just a press of lips but it lights you up, "baby, darling, grub muffin --" you're growling, at that, "can you please try for just one fucking second --" another kiss, "to realize that this means there's at least one universe where I get my shit together?"

"Uh," you say, because you are the smartest and most coherent. Because, shit, he's just kissed you. Wow. There's this feeling in your chest, like something's broken in there, like something's on fire in there, and you think _he actually does_ , and it's too much like too many things you've imagined. You close your eyes. You can't look at him right now.

"And if I can get over myself," he's saying, "then maybe there's some hope for you, too?"

"Uh," you say.

He kisses you again. You kiss back. His other hand is braced against your back, holding him up against your chest.

"Shit," you say. "Really?"

"Yes, dumbass, really. Really and truly." You force your eyes open. He's smirking, because he's an asshole. He might be _your_ asshole. At least right now.

"It's hard to tell when you're not shitting me," you tell him. 

"I'm always shitting you. That's my charm." 

You pull back, just a little. "I'm not always the best at, ah, seizing the moment."

Dave rolls his eyes and kisses you again. "Yeah, I know. I can stop, if you don't want --"

"You festering buttpustule, of course I want. I'm just not sure why I should get to _have_ \--" He slides his hand down under the waist of your jeans and palms your ass and you can't help it, you don't want to help it, you buck your hips forward and rub down against him, because he's here and he's with you and he's _between your thighs_ and your goddamn nook is literally aching.

It takes you two tries to undo the button on your jeans and then the toothed closure just won't go down, it's the stupidest thing, you're sitting back on your heels and struggling with it and then Dave's hands are pushing yours away and sliding the little tab down. "I've had a lot of practice at this," he says, "you just relax and sit back and -- okay, no, don't sit back, lift up, these fucking pants are so tight, I love to see them leaving so I get to see you go --" and then he's, oh shit, he's hooking his toes up into your belt loops and dragging your pants down your thighs. You knew he was that flexible but you'd never really considered the practical applications.

"Fffht," you say, and he laughs at you. You claw at your ankles and drag your pants and shorts the rest of the way off and oh, wow, you're -- you're not wearing any pants. Hey.

"Sweater, too," Dave says. He's sliding his hands up your thighs as you pull it off, over your head. His creepy alien hands feel impossibly warm and strong and -- oh, he's _used_ to you, isn't he, the way he curves around away from that spot where you're too ticklish and slides the heel of his hand down across the tip of your bulge, pressure but not too much, this solid thing for you to rub up against.

"Why're you still wearing pants?" you ask, breath ragged in his face as you brace yourself over him.

"You want me to move my hands? Really?"

"Yes, bitch, really."

He twists his hand, dips two fingers into your nook, shallow, and just as you're moaning into it and pushing forward because wow, fingers, he pulls out, says, "Okay," and starts working on his jeans.

You think it's only fair to bite him hard in the meaty part of his shoulder. That -- oh, he reacts beautifully to that, hissing and shifting up and _toward_ you, hah, and his blood is bright and metallic and sweet on your tongue. You lick at the bite and he moans and kicks his pants the rest of the way off.

"You're sure we haven't done this before?" he says, hands at your hips, pulling you back toward his crotch, and you glance down and -- no, not the same as yours but not so impossibly different, either. He hasn't got a nook but you knew that, from one or another embarrassing conversation, so it's not like it's a shock. 

You run your fingers along his bulge and it's warm and twitches a little, up into your hand. He shivers, and you stroke down over the tender sack of his shame globes. Having all that just _out there_ kind of makes you wince, but at the same time…you're fucking an alien. It would be disappointing, really, if everything were normal. 

It's nothing you don't like, nothing you don't want, which is good because he's got you by the hips and he's rubbing you along the hard, ridged length of it, against his belly, which is astonishing, how much you like that. You're slick. You're trilling. You're actually fucking trilling, which would be embarrassing if you had any room left in your thinkpan for embarrassment which you do not because the arousal has taken over completely.

"Pretty sure this is all new, yeah," you pant.

"Because this seems very familiar." He has the nerve to sound smug.

"Not to me," you mutter. "Not even a little." You wish.

He kisses you again. "You need to take a break?"

"What I need to take --" You kneel up again and nudge the blunt tip of his bulge into you, and it's hard to get it in, at first, because it's so thick there at the tip, he catches your hand and adjusts the angle a little and "-- yeah, yeah, that's -- oh." It's nothing like a concupiscent device, it's much warmer and it _moves_ and, oh yes, it's attached to another person, who wants to be _in_ you. Who actually _wants_ you.

The blood is very pretty, trickling down his pale shoulder, and you lick at it again. Dave gasps. "Fuck me."

"Am," you say, a little smug yourself, rocking back onto him. He's stretching you open and full, and he's got his hand on your bulge, pressing it against his belly so you've got something soft and warm and tight and _Dave_ to rut against. It's motion, and heat, and the taste of his sweat and his blood on the back of your tongue. He's in you and around you and it's more than you thought it would be, it's more than you expected, and you start giggling a little because you think about how you're not going to die a virgin because you slept with someone who's _dead_ while you were _asleep_ and does that even _count_ and if you didn't laugh you might start crying.

He grabs your hips hard and thuds up into you and says, "Do you find this _funny,_ Karkat?" and you giggle some more, helplessly, overwhelmed, and he says, "Good," and does it again and again until you can't think any more. Your palms are slick on his shoulders.

He comes first, and he tries to stay in you but after a second he's hissing and pulling away and fussing about how sensitive everything is, which you thought was the whole point. You're close enough to orgasm to be grouchy about it. But he makes it up to you, hands and mouth all over your bulge and fingers, curving into you, the hard lumps of his knuckles pressing hard against the places that make you gasp and stutter and his mouth warm around you as you finally, finally, crash over the edge in a rush of clenching and shaking and spots at the edges of your vision.

"Shit," you manage, when he's pulled out of you and crawled up to lean his head on your shoulder. "Is it always like that?"

He shrugs. "That was pretty good. It's…usually pretty good."

"Yeah."

His breathing has evened out and his eyes are half-closed when you say, "Dave?"

"Yep?"

"Are we still friends?"

"What, even though we fuck?"

"Yeah."

"You're so stupid."

You sigh. "There is widespread consensus on that fact, yes. Can you just answer the question?"

"You're my best friend. _And_ we fuck."

"That…that sounds really nice, actually."

"You should try to work something out with the other me."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm really bothered by the idea of me getting laid. I just hate that plan. Karkat?"

"Yeah?"

"You're supposed to go to sleep after sex."

"Right," you grumble, and drop your nose into his hair.

You wake up alone, your novel splayed open on your chest. You're dressed, but you've come in your pants, which is as damp and sweaty and vile as you've heard. Yuck. You heave yourself up, strip, and stagger into the ablution trap. Hot water and soap.

That was, well, that was a thing that happened. You're not sure if it counts as a wet dream or an actual sexual experience or…or what. You slide a soapy hand over your genitals and they're a little sore, a little swollen. It was good, whatever it was. It was so good. You quite desperately want to do it again.

You think you're going to go eat something and maybe see if Dave wants you to read to him. Yeah. Not that you have any kind of an ulterior motive there or anything.

**Author's Note:**

> So, a couple of weeks ago I read a little cartoon in which Karkat is reading to Dave and Dave's bored and trying to get a rise out of him and says something along the lines of hey asshole, hey, I've totally fucked, like, all these Karkats in dream bubbles, and Karkat says oh, really, was it good? and Dave's like, wait what, and Karkat says, no, I mean it, was the sex good? and Dave splutters and says no, I did not really do that, I'm just messing with you, and Karkat says, very smugly, well, I fucked a Dave.
> 
> And I laughed, because it was funny, and then I thought, wait, wait, that would be hot. I should write something like that.
> 
> And so I did, and then I went back to find the cartoon so I could credit the artist, but in the meantime I'd had to reboot my laptop so I lost all my tabs and...yeah, long story short: I would very much like to give inspirational credit where it's due, but I have spent a couple of hours searching and had no luck. 
> 
> If you know the cartoon I mean, please let me know so I can (1) credit the artist and (2) bookmark it! Thanks.
> 
> ETA: It's by [freakyhumanshit at Tumblr](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/41986933969/thank-you-elendraug-for-the-book-excerpt). Also I remembered it wrong, but oh well.


End file.
